


Sleeping with the enemy

by Mallorn



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Happy Ending, Literally sleeping with the enemy, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, enemies to lovers speedrun, ménage à trois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-11-25 20:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20917892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Betrayed by the Rebel Alliance, Jyn Erso reaches for the one constant in her chaos: the man in white. Krennic immediately sees her potential, but Tarkin is not impressed. AU in which Galen is assassinated by Cassian and an angsty start for Jyn soon leads to smut and fluff.





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the talented Howlingmojo's amazing art of Jyn, Tarkin and Krennic. Please visit howlingmojo.tumblr.com, and make sure to check out the post for Feb 22, 2019 in particular!
> 
> Expertly proofread by the fantastic Cassandra1, who, with much kindness and patience, continues to ensure that any linguistic oddities in posted works are entirely my own.

Jyn’s lasting memory of Eadu is rain. Not blood – it is washed away at almost the same moment it exits his body. There are other bodies, too, many of them, imperial bodies whose deaths she should celebrate and applaud, but only one means something to her. One that changes everything.

Even in the dark she sees her father’s eyes light up in sudden wonder as she runs towards him, ignoring the mayhem around her to fling herself over his supine body. He manages a thin smile, and for a moment she is taken back in time, to when the world was safe. “Stardust”, he calls her and holds her face with the one hand over which he still has a semblance of control. The knot inside her dissolves and she pours it all out on him, all her love and despair, and she sees it mirrored in his gaze. It lasts only for a second or two, but just then it is like everything that was broken is healed. “I love you,” she sobs and presses her cheek to his.

She feels his embrace weaken and can no longer hear his whispers, but she holds on to him stubbornly. The light in his eyes has gone out and his chest no longer heaves. There can be no hope, and yet, it’s like when she was small and thought she could stop time for as long as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Eventually she must look. He is no longer there, the body before her ashen, foreign. It bears his features, or some resemblance thereof, but it’s no longer him. Her father.

Through the beating of the rain, she becomes aware of a voice. There’s a white shape in the doorway, a man with a coat flapping in the wind.

“Sniper!” he yells, and she’s ready to bolt, but then she sees how he directs the troopers further towards the cliff’s edge.

A wall of black closes her off from the peril in the dark. Cassian Andor is a competent assassin, a terrific liar, and the worst kriffing asshole. He promised they’d rescue her father, and instead – . Another loud sob shakes her body. So many dead.

“Jyn,” the man in white says, still from the safety of the doorway. She recognizes him now. Director Krennic, another symbol of her childhood. Until a moment ago, she loathed him. Now her world has been turned upside down and she no longer knows what to think.

“Come,” he calls. “Now, be a good girl. There’s no use getting killed.”

She casts one last gaze out into the darkness and then starts walking towards the light.

His coat is cold and wet. His hand patting her hair is hesitant, and she winces slightly at first, shudders with the unfamiliarity of his touch, but just then he’s all she’s got, and she puts her arms around him and clings to him for all she’s worth.

“There,” he says again, and his arms come around her back. They’re inside now, but the rain and explosions still surround them.

“He killed him,” she sobs. “Cassian! I thought he was my friend and he killed him!”

There’s no audible answer, just soothing hands stroking her back.

“I trusted him! I trusted them! They were never going to help me, they just wanted to find him so they could get rid of him and now he’s dead!”

“Oh,” Krennic says, strange astonishment in his voice. “Aren’t rebellions always like that?”

“I regret all of it!” She’s already more angry than sad – she always found strength in anger. “That traitor! I hate him! I hate them!”

“Good, good. That’s right. You have to know where your loyalties lie.”

He smiles then, and she is suddenly certain.  
  
“There is a transport,” she blurts, despite the voice inside her insisting the others are innocent, that this is all _Captain_ Andor’s doing.

She clenches her jaw, ignores the ache in her belly and beats it down like so many times before. This is a war, isn’t that what Saw used to say? Before, when he was still making her a soldier for his cause. Before he betrayed her and cast her out into the void.

Innocents perish in wars. This is no different. She examines them in her thoughts: Baze, Chirrut, Bodhi – even the damned droid – but one face fades out the rest of the group. The traitor, the killer, the mindless tool of destruction. She needs Cassian dead. He wanted to make her a soldier, too, for his cause that is the same as Saw’s, but different. If she ever cared about ideals, she no longer does. Cassian needs to die.

“You heard her,” Director Krennic tells the black troopers. “Find it.”

“It’s behind that crest,” she adds, pointing.

Krennic nods, then lifts his head and bellows after the hastily departing troopers: “Find it!”

He studies her again, concern on his face. “How many? On the transport?”

“I don’t know.” It doesn’t matter. She wants the entire mess gone, everything that was her brief and miserable connection with the Rebel Alliance.

“Come on,” he coos. “The sniper wasn’t alone, was he?”

She shakes her head. “There was a pilot, too.” She makes her voice listless, as if her indifference can somehow disguise the others. The Imperials already know about the pilot, they must know; he defected. There’s no harm in telling Krennic that. Baze and Chirrut are different. She doesn’t mind if they live.

“The pilot is still there,” Krennic tells the nearest remaining trooper. “There are others as well.”

She clenches her fists. How does he know?

“Good,” he tells her. It’s almost a “good girl” again, but this time he stops himself in time for it to be just a slightly off pause before he closes his mouth. “Well done. We’ll have the bastards that killed your father.”

She relaxes then. She bores her nose into his tunic and it smells of mud and fuel and rain but under it all there’s a faint whiff of expensive tobacco and she realizes that he has held her before. She remembers these hands from her childhood. So large and always so gentle. Her childhood memories are buried deeply within, locked into a bunker where no light can reach them. Safe. She quickly slams the lock shut. She is not a child any more. She is not the same person. But Director Krennic is, and that is all that truly matters now. Everyone else is gone.

* * *

Orson doesn’t know what to make of the girl. She looks every bit a terrorist, if perhaps more thief than assassin. He lifts his finger and halts the troopers as he watches her interact with Galen. She is an adult, but young, maybe even young enough to be what he’s beginning to suspect as he sees the tenderness between the two of them. The child. Could it be? Is she Galen’s lost daughter?”

He gets a better look at her when she accepts his invitation. There is no longer any doubt; Lyra’s bequest is visible too.

A plan starts to form in his mind as he comforts her. It may not work. He may have to dispose of her somewhere along the way, but that is the easy part. He will cross that line when need arises. But if it works? It will be a glorious use of an opportunity. Galen will continue to serve the Empire after his death. ‘Erso’s regrettable death.’ Orson tastes the words, lets them wash over his palate in silence as he continues to pat her hair. ‘Imperial science officer Galen Erso’s regrettable death at the hands of a rebel terrorist.’ Yes! That has a nice ring to it. Nobody needs to know that he was about to order the man’s execution.

Alive, Galen had become a liability. As a martyr for the Empire, he’ll continue to serve for as long as Orson sees fit. Also, he died for science, for his beloved crystals. What else could a man hope for? His legacy will be immortal now, his name writ in the stars right below Orson’s.

Galen and Orson were friends, remained so to the end, through all the hardships suffered for the greatest victory, personal happiness sacrificed for the greater good. To the very end, the regrettable end, when a sniper’s blaster bolt snuffed out his genius. Orson wipes his eye, suddenly feeling solemn.

‘But Erso’s legacy lives on’, Orson continues, constructing his speech in his head. It lives on in Director Krennic’s creation. Yes. This is the best version of the truth. The girl already believes it, that much is clear. His troopers are loyal. Everyone else is dead or soon will be. Once the hubbub surrounding Galen’s possible betrayal dies down, it will be a matter of media control. This timely death has opened so many possibilities, as has the rebel attack against the research facility. The mess of the last couple of days will be neatly solved. He can’t wait to tell Tarkin. Wilhuff will be so pleased, and if this doesn’t earn Orson a personal audience with the Emperor, he doesn’t know what would, short of a full demonstration of the station’s power.

“There is a transport,” he hears the girl say.

“You came with it.” This realization cuts through his plan.

She nods. “I never knew him and now he’s gone.”

“Shhh, come here.” He opens his arms truly not knowing how she will react, but she does the right thing. Even in this his predictions were correct.

* * *

Over the next few days Orson continues to praise his luck. Present-day Jyn is as far removed from the child he used to see with Galen and Lyra as a calibop from its chick. The angry young woman has potential and she follows him around whenever he lets her.

Wilhuff doesn’t trust her. He insists that she will turn on Orson one day, just like Galen did, and he will regret it. Orson doesn’t care. He admires the passion he sees in her, the recklessness and anger. She is volatile, but he can control her. It would be a waste not to harness this potential for himself, and for the Empire. All she needs is a little time to adjust to the idea of being on their side.

In the meantime, he cultivates her. In fact, she does most of the work herself. She has so many questions and she never misses an opportunity to accompany him. When she asks to share his bed, he’s flattered, but not surprised. He says no at first, for Wilhuff’s sake as much as to test her. He’s delighted when she corners him.

“I’m not a child anymore,” she demands, hands on her hips.

“I know,” he says with his most serious face. Jyn is adorable when she’s angry. All that energy and passion!

“Then why won’t you give me a chance to prove it!” Her eyes flash with annoyance.

“Ah, you know, old times and all that. Your father wouldn’t approve.”

She bristles. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

He pretends to be taken aback and lets her go after him, which she does. She stands on her toes at first, then takes a leap and closes her legs around his waist. He staggers under the unexpected weight, and but then simply refuses to waste the opportunity. She is hungry and wanting. He chuckles and shakes his head – she’s even more than he could hope for and her youthful enthusiasm is almost more than he can handle.

* * *

Orson has made a brilliant move, even Wilhuff reluctantly admits that. With a few simple keystrokes, he’s blamed the entire incident and the substantial culling of the Imperial science officer corps on one Cassian Andor, rebel terrorist. Galen Erso is no longer a pitiful traitor, but a martyr for a noble cause. Within a few weeks Orson will have swallowed his own pride and believe it as well. His talent for fabrication is amazing: Galen has been his friend and confidant all along, never deceitful, only misled. Orson’s only failure is to not have protected him sufficiently from bad influences.

Jyn is making good progress, and that night he tells Wilhuff as much.

Wilhuff’s office is a large and stately room, if not quite as spacious as the one that he designed for his own position as director. Sitting on the desk is the best way to make sure his husband doesn’t stay up all night working. It has the added bonus of close proximity, and means Orson gets to be the taller one for a change.

“She asked me today if you know about us,” he says, searching Wilhuff’s gaze for a reaction.

“And what did you tell her?” Wilhuff sounds like he has no idea of the answer.

Orson’s gaze goes to his ring, a simple band but one of incredible worth and not only because it’s crafted of the same metals that form his very own star. “I told her the truth,” he says.

“How refreshing.” Orson can see that Wilhuff is amused. “Would I deny you your little hobbies? Dally with the girl if you must, but don’t involve me.”

“Thank you.” He knows it must cost Wilhuff to grant him this.

“I have no interest in curbing your curiosity. All I ask is to be left out of your other pursuits. Our life together is inviolable.”

“Exactly. We’re special.” He takes Wilhuff’s hand. After a minute’s pleasant contemplation of the sublime serendipity that allowed the two greatest minds in the galaxy to find each other, he continues, unable to leave it at that. “Why don’t you like her? She’s pretty.”

“I have no objection to her physical features, although my personal taste in that regard is rather specific.”

Orson’s cheeks heat and he can’t help preening just a little.

“She’s rebellious,” Wilhuff continues, lifting a finger in warning as he stands and begins to walk back and forth. “Rebellious, defiant and disrespectful. I do not doubt your ability to entertain her for a while, but you cannot trust her. That girl could blow up at any time.” He stops and stares at Orson. “Have you seen her eyes? They’re burning with desperation and unbridled hate.”

“For the terrorists.” He’d burn like that, too, if he lost –. He loosens his too tight collar. Nothing is going to take either Wilhuff or the Death Star from him! 

“For now, yes.”

“I can work with that.”

Wilhuff crosses the floor and stands between Orson’s legs, looking down on him. “She would devour you in an instant if she knew the truth. I will not let that happen.”

Orson trembles; he loves seeing Wilhuff like this. He hugs him and claims his lips in a hard kiss. Wilhuff’s mouth is demanding at first, and just when Orson hopes this will lead to a lot more, he softens. “Take care,” he says in a low voice that makes Orson shiver. “I don’t know why I bother saying it,” Wilhuff continues. “I suspect you’ll remain reckless to the end.”

“That’s why you love me, remember?” He kisses Wilhuff again, skilfully, seductively. It’s useless, naturally. They fucked the day before and Wilhuff insists that a few days’ abstinence now and then will teach Orson patience. Sometimes his husband is incredibly difficult!


	2. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jyn begins to find her place, with Krennic and in the Empire. Tarkin, on the other hand, is a tough nut to crack.

Whatever the propaganda says, Jyn’s transformation isn’t instant. There’s no angry, sexy rebel girl who suddenly sees the light, abandons her scruffy companions to join a detachment of stormtroopers and march behind them like an extra member all the way back to base to be greeted and taken in by a smiling mother-hen type officer, who slaps her on her back in a comradely fashion and hands her a new blaster and a cap with their emblem. Another cog in the machinery of success. The galactic peace corps.

The holovid is over the top, but it’s nice to watch it with Krennic. The projector on his desk is the largest she has seen. Everything on the station is solid and sturdy and well-built, and she often feels out of place. Is this organised life really for her? There’s no doubt just now, there never is when she’s with Orson. In his bed, or just like this, seated on his lap with her back against his chest and his lips caressing her ear as he points out all the details in the projection.

She understands what he’s is attempting to do, and she’s serious about never wanting anything to do with the rebels again. She’s also flattered enough to play along with his propaganda image of her. This level of attention has never been paid to her before. Not since she was eight, at least. Now she’s Orson’s star.

Theirs would be a neat little universe, but for Tarkin. She doesn’t know what to make of him, of Wilhuff. Her first thought when seeing him was terror, and she still has difficulty calling him by his first name even in her thoughts. Doing it to his face would be unimaginable. Orson’s ease around him puzzles her.

“Does he know about us?” she asks when the projector stops, and they sit in the dark.

Orson doesn’t answer, only nudges her sideways and kisses her. His mouth is soft and warm, and the way he holds her feels as if his arms alone are enough to protect her from the entire galaxy. Happy giddiness wells up inside of her and she decides it doesn’t matter what a stuck-up, ancient being thinks of her. Then the light comes on, distracting her, so that she remembers. She straightens her back and asks again.

“Tarkin, I mean. Does he know?”

“Of course, what did you think? He’s my husband.”

Then another kiss, as if this world-changing fact has no bearing on what they’re doing.

“Does – Does he approve?” Even if she’s learnt not to be exactly afraid of Ta – Wilhuff, there’s still that quality about him that commands tremendous respect. She can’t imagine intentionally doing anything in opposition to him. Except, maybe, this. She will not be parted from Orson.

Orson snorts. “There’s next to nothing Wilhuff approves of, though I’ve discovered he’s rather tolerant when he wants to be. He loves me, you know, although you’ll never hear him say it aloud. But he does. So he lets me have you.”

“That’s… that’s –.” Strange is the word she wants to say, but for once she curbs her tongue. “– astonishing” is what she goes for instead.

“I know. Wilhuff is a remarkable man. Even if you’re not fond of him now, you’ll come around.”

“I don’t know, he’s very stern-looking …”

“Tends to bring one’s bratty side out, yes.”

She cannot decide if he’s serious or not, but then his straight face dissolves into a lop-sided grin and he winks. She giggles and hugs him again. How bad can Tarkin be if Orson loves him?

“Care for a drink?”

She nods and slides off Orson’s lap. He goes to a cupboard and fetches a bottle. No glasses. When she stares at him, he puts the lid between his teeth and yanks it off with a turn of his head. That rakish wink again! She loves this about Orson, how underneath that polished surface with its pristine uniform there’s a boy with scruffy habits.

For a long time, they don’t speak about Tarkin, or speak much at all. Only when there’s nothing more to drink, Orson puts a digit to her chest.

“D’ya know what else he is?”

“Ta – your husband?”

“Yeah. He’s good in bed. You should try.”

“As if he’d want me. If I tried, he’d sneer at me and tell me to be gone and leave him in peace. Like this.”

She doesn’t think much of her imitation, but it makes Orson laugh, and her, too. Which reminds her of a suddenly urgent need.

“Thanks for the drink,” she says. “The holovid is a blast.”

“I’m serious,” Orson splutters. “Wilhuff’s the best.”

* * *

Regardless of Orson’s insistence that she tries to get to know Tarkin, Jyn does her best to avoid him. There’s something about him that makes her want to kick and scream, the same sort of knee-jerk reaction authority figures typically cause in her. Only Orson doesn’t do that, much. He has a similar response to such behaviour; she’s seen it. Only he’s vastly better at controlling it when necessary and using it to his advantage whenever he wishes to. He can send Motti into a rage in less than a minute. It’s a mystery what Tarkin and Krennic see in each other.

The DS-1 is enormous and the likelihood of occupying the same space as Tarkin at any given time ought to be almost non-existent. She is standing at one of the viewports staring into space. She fingers the crystal around her neck, a simple action that still soothes her. For most of her life, it used to be hidden under her clothes, but she’s started wearing it openly at Orson’s suggestion. At first it was only for the holos, but she likes the tale he spun around it, how it connects her to her father’s legacy and showcases her loyalty to the Empire. She needs all the calm and strength it can give her when she hears familiar footsteps approaching.

Tarkin’s slow steps seem to project malicious intent as he stalks the corridors. She has never been alone with him and she would have bolted if he wasn’t blocking her only escape route.

As things are, she remains where she is, frantically clutching her necklace as she does her best to pretend that he isn’t standing beside her. He is quiet. She observes him from the corner of her eye. His hands are clasped behind his back and he stares straight ahead but appears lost in thought. After a while she tires of being afraid. She pets the crystal a last time and lets her arms hang. The stars are beautiful.

“I’ll space you if you hurt him.”

Said without the slightest emotion, those words chill her to the bone. She’s heard enough about Tarkin to know that he means it. She’s too shocked either to reply or move, and remains standing there long after he’s left.

* * *

She doesn’t give them Yavin IV. Maybe, despite Orson’s ministrations, she doesn’t fully trust them yet. Maybe her anger towards the rebels has cooled a little. She doesn’t want them to continue to kill innocent people, but she doesn’t want to see them all dead either. They should have evacuated by now, in any case. When she didn’t come back and they couldn’t find her corpse, they should have erased all traces and left. That’s what Saw would have done.

Dantooine is another story. That awful Draven bragged a lot about how successful that base is. She doesn’t know anyone there.

Orson looks so happy when she tells him that she has to rely on her training not to change her decision about Yavin IV.

* * *

One day, Orson is nowhere to be found. He was going on a mission, that much she knows, but when he continues not to show she worries. She finds him in medbay, in a spacious, secluded room that smells of chemicals. The silence is broken only by the occasional beep from a panel. She’s about to slip inside when she realizes he’s not alone. She stops in her tracks, suddenly afraid to move. Tarkin is there!

She watches how he strokes Orson’s cheek with his knuckles. He’s seated near the headrest, one hand clasping Orson’s and the other stroking his face.

“Out,” he says flatly. His tone bears no questioning, but she must know. She takes a step closer and he whips around. His gaze is deadly. Just as fast, he turns back, muttering, “Oh, it’s you. You may stay.”

Up close, Orson barely looks alive. He’s a sickly pale hue and his breaths come in uneven rasps, as if his body has to fight hard for each and every one of them. The room reeks with bacta and a large patch covers the right side of his chest.

Tarkin’s hand hovers just above Orson’s, as if he’s aching to hold it again but doesn’t because she’s there. A stranger interrupting their moment of intimacy. She doesn’t belong with Orson, that is so very clear now. And if she can’t have him, then what purpose does she have here?

“You can do it,” she tells Tarkin. “I’m so sorry, I –“

“Do what?” He sounds puzzled and mildly annoyed.

“Space me. Like you said you would if I hurt him. I’ve hurt both of you.”

“Nonsense.”

“But it’s true. I’ve barged into your lives and tried to make him mine and – and – I’m so sorry!”

“You, young lady, speak complete and utter nonsense. Unless you enticed Director Krennic to accompany the surface team in direct violation of my orders and personally set the trap he managed to spring by blatantly ignoring security protocol, this incident has nothing to do with you.”

“But… but it was I who told him about the base. And now he’s –” She looks towards Orson’s still body and sobs.

“Soldier!”

The harshness of his voice cuts through her tears and she turns hastily, ready to give him a piece of her mind about using such a tone near a sickbed, and if the acerbic old man thinks she’s his to command, then –”

He doesn’t give her a chance to speak.

“You informed Director Krennic about a military target,” he states dispassionately, “as was your duty. The target was confirmed and effectively eliminated, with minimal losses. All in all, a successful operation. A modest measure of pride on your part would be permissible under the circumstances.”

“I’m glad if it was useful to you, but that doesn’t change this.” She casts another glance at Orson and a loud sob shakes her. “I don’t want to live if he doesn’t make it!”

“Your devotion is noted. Director Krennic will live. All he needs now is sleep, and the same is true for you.” He sighs. “You’d better come with me, lest you work yourself into a bout of hysteria. I will not have any such thing disturb Orson.”

She follows along meekly, not knowing what else to do. She still feels like she owes the stern man an apology at the very least, but doesn’t believe it would be well received, so she keeps quiet. After a while they arrive at his quarters. He ushers her inside, then indicates a chair opposite the desk.

“Sit.”

She does. Her entire body feels heavy, drained of all energy, and she’s glad to be ignored as he moves about the suite. He disappears for a while, then returns carrying two steaming cups. He puts one in front of her.

“Drink.”

She accepts it with a nod and as soon as she grasps the cup she realizes how cold her hands are. She sits there, just holding it and watching him drink his tea and read. He looks relaxed, cross-legged and with his tunic exchanged for a comfortable-looking jacket. His slippers make her smile, they’re such a contrast to his usual attire. Only when he casts her an annoyed glance does she remember to drink. She sips slowly, consciously dragging out the moment when she will have to leave.

The sound of him tapping the pad he reads from lulls her into rest and she nearly panics when he rises. He’s about to say something she doesn’t care to hear, and he won’t be able to if she speaks first.

“Can I sleep here? Please?”

He looks at the bed, then casts a pointed glance at the floor. “If you must.”

“Thank you, oh thank you so much.” She almost grasps his hand out of sheer gratitude, and he clasps them behind the back just in time. He turns and takes a few steps towards the bed.

“Come on, then,” he says. He stops in the middle of the floor.

“Okay,” she hesitates, “Here?” She’ll happily sleep on the floor if it means she can be near someone.

He sees her gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s room for two in the bed if you lie still.”

When he’s asleep, she dares move a little until she’s pressed against his back.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Umm... they get together? All of them? In a way that makes this story earn its tags and rating?

The next night she’s there again. Orson has been awake part of the day, miserable and demanding, but so very much alive. Then he must sleep, and her fears come back. Wilhuff sees it, too. Without a word, he gestures to her and she comes along.

This time she prepares the tea.

“I want to be useful,” she tells him as she puts the cups down on the desk. “More than this, I mean. I want to have a purpose. An occupation.”

He barely lifts his gaze from the data pad. “Tired of being Director Krennic’s stray rebel and poster girl?”

She clenches her jaw. Why must he be so difficult?

Finally, he looks at her. “What can you do, then?”

“Fight,” she tells him truthfully. “I can fight.”

“Name the weapons you are familiar with. With their proper designations.”

“All of them. Anything that I can get my hands on. I’m darn good at improvising.” She’s proud of her ability to adapt.

“I see. You lack formal training.” He shakes his head. “Orson would have my head if I sent you to trooper training. Do you have any experience as a leader?”

“I work best on my own.” Wrong answer. “But I can learn,” she adds. He says nothing, so she continues: “I’m good at fixing stuff, too. There must be something I could do.”

“I suggest you discuss your career plans with Director Krennic. He undoubtedly wishes to prolong his idling in medbay for as long as possible, but he ought to be up and about tomorrow night at the latest.”

“Really?” It finally sinks into her that Orson is going to be fine. She titters. “Sorry,” she says. “I know you’d rather read than talk. I’m just so relieved!”

They drink their tea in silence and she thinks about Orson the entire time. How happy he makes her, and how she wants to make him happy, too. He is right about his husband – it seems silly to her now that she used to be afraid of Wilhuff. In addition to generally being a decent person, Wilhuff is quite handsome, with his noble nose and dramatic cheekbones. What would it take to make him lose his composure? This is a chance she cannot waste.

“Orson wants me to try something,” she says and casts a quick glance at him. “With you.”

From the look of him, Wilhuff knows precisely what this is about.

“I’m not gentle,” he states while continuing to stare at the datapad.

‘Except with him’ – filling in the unspoken words is easy.

“I don’t cuddle,” he continues. “In case you expect something to that effect.”

“I don’t.” It’s true. She’s curious and lonely and aching for human interaction. “I just need to – not be alone for a while.”

He finally puts down the pad and looks at her. “That,” he says seriously, “appears to be a singularly poor reason to instigate carnal relations. I advise you not to proceed with something you will most likely regret.”

“I can handle it,” she declares. “I want this.” How dare he doubt her resolve?

“Edge of bed, on your knees, thighs spread, keep your top on.”

It’s not particularly intimate, but very effective. Within minutes, she’s screaming Orson’s name as she comes.

* * *

Tarkin knows it needed to be done. He has considered it before, naturally, ever since Orson planted the seed in his head. He expects the affectionless act to be a deterrent to the girl, regardless of the physical satisfaction she clearly experiences. That is his intention. She will run to Orson and complain, and he will be rid of both her attention and Orson’s nagging.

Apparently, he has misjudged both her courage and her taste. Not only does Jyn remain in his bed until morning, but as soon as she thinks him asleep, she edges closer. The feeling of her lips against his skin is tolerable; it’s the expectations and demands that come with affection he wants to avoid. Orson is more than enough for him.

Still, he doesn’t regret accepting her challenge. He must admit that her fire is rather compelling, and as things stand, he’s not entirely opposed to a repeat. Orson will be pleased.  


* * *

Orson is in an excellent mood. His recovery has been swift, and he has dealt a mortal blow against the rebels. That he didn’t get to use his most formidable weapon is a minor drawback, no matter how much he desired to declare that Dantooine was no more. Oh well. He can always come back later.

“How’s my favourite girl been?” He can tell she wars with herself, glad to be his favourite, but detesting being referred to as a girl. “You’ve proven your worth now,” he continues. “Your intelligence was sound, and the treacherous planet is being pulled back into the fold as we speak.”

“I’ve missed you.” She hides in his embrace, her sweet little nose boring into his tunic. He kisses her forehead, then trails soft kisses on her face, down to her mouth.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he says in a low voice. “There’s too little time now, or I’d drag you to bed right now.” At that, she giggles, but her eyes are large and serious.

“I’ve done it,” she declares.

At first he doesn’t understand what she means. There was something he hoped to introduce her to soon. Could she have acted already? “Tell me,” he says, cradling her face with his hands.

“I’ve slept with – with Wilhuff.” Her voice is small and insecure. “Does it make you happy?”

He kisses her again, smushing their faces together as gently as he can while the enthusiasm is bubbling up inside him. His Jyn. She’s so tiny, yet strong, and brave.

“I can’t wait until tonight.” He smiles and she blushes. Wilhuff must have been very good to her.

* * *

Tarkin enjoys watching them. He takes pleasure in knowing that they’re both his, and that all it takes is to lift a finger. That simple gesture is all he needs to do for them to come to him, immediately. To have that power and not use it, not need to use it, is sublime. He likes to see Orson happy, and, even more than that, it’s deeply satisfying to know that someone will be there for his husband when he himself no longer can be. The girl is attached to Orson, he can see that.

It’s amusing to observe them like this, focused on one another, yet very much performing for his pleasure, attempting to persuade him to join them. He supposes he could, in a while. He’s in no hurry. It’s obvious that Jyn enjoys mastering Orson as she rides him. She urges him on playfully and gives him a seemingly endless string of commands until he loses control and slams into her.

Then she leans low, letting him suck her nipples. Tarkin enjoys watching that nimble tongue lave her breasts and notes how it affects her. He finds her somewhat grating in daily life, but like this, he can hardly get enough. She gets an arousal out of Orson that is simply delightful.

He smiles at the obscene sounds that spill from Orson’s mouth in a very deliberate manner.

“Ah, Wilhuff, mmm, yeah, just like that, you must give it a try, she’s the most glorious thing to fuck!”

Jyn has her own method, an equally obvious one. No matter what Orson does, she asks for something else, in a whiny voice that fits ill with her glowing expression but is hopelessly annoying. Softer, harder, here, not there, not like that. Insolent girl!

Tarkin watches them, knowing from the glint in Orson’s eyes that he knows that Tarkin knows they’re baiting him. He doesn’t care. Their display is erotic and outrageous and turns him on so much that he wants to push the girl off his husband and claim him himself. He lets the thought brew in his mind, turns it, examines it until he’s come to a point where he needs to act. He does not. She is still too new to him, to them.

When Orson comes they both look each other in the eyes, and after, Orson makes a signal.

Then Tarkin grabs Jyn and unceremoniously pulls her off Orson and onto the bed. She is strong but slight of frame and he handles her with ease. With Orson as an eager witness, Tarkin soon has her kneeling on the bed with her face against the mattress. He holds her wrists behind her back with one hand. The other he uses to guide himself into her, and then to hold her hip as he slams into her viciously.

“You kriffing brute!” she yells and for a moment he thinks he might have gone too far – but then her voice dissolves in laughter. “Harder! Faster!”

He complies until she’s nearly delirious with lust, her words reduced to enthusiastic gibberish. A glance at Orson confirms that the scene looks as good as it feels. Orson watches with wonder, mouth slightly agape, now and then letting a ‘yes’ slip over his lips.

He’s almost there, still chasing his peak when the force of her orgasm shakes them both. She is silent for a moment, still and oddly quiet despite his continued thrusts. He clenches his jaws and releases her wrists, prepared to abort at any moment if it becomes necessary. Even now he has excellent control. If only –

“More.” Her voice is a hiss. “Don’t you kriffing stop now.”

She raises on all fours and pushes back against him with abandon and in the corner of his eye he sees Orson and that is all it takes to finally send him over the edge.

He rolls onto his back with his eyes closed, exhausted and sated, trying to catch his breath. This – is – nearly – too – much. How the fuck Orson can keep up with her is a mystery.

A hand strokes his heaving chest, another wipes his hair off his forehead. He decides to let them. Orson’s hands are large and warm, his touch familiar and always to the point. He knows precisely where to stroke and how. Jyn’s fingertips are cool against his skin, the trails she traces over his torso tentative and much too light. Still, it is an acceptable start. He’ll tell her to rake her nails down his back the next time they –

A finger brushes over the junction of his thighs and he bats her hand away, opening his eyes.

“Ticklish,” he grunts.

“Sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Orson tells her and gives her a kiss. Then his mouth is on Tarkin’s and it’s sloppy and demanding and even if he has no thought of following up with what Orson is asking for, he cannot get enough of it.

Then he notices Jyn. She has slipped to the floor between Orson’s legs and her hands are on his thighs, her mouth is hovering near his crotch and his very needy cock. She looks as if she’s waiting for a signal, so Tarkin nods.

* * *

Jyn doesn’t understand her own reaction. She’s done this before with Orson; there’s no need for her to ask either Wilhuff’s permission, or his guidance. Yet she does, perhaps as some strange way of showing respect for their union. She is relieved that he understands without her having to spell it out.

With Wilhuff’s hand on her head she dives in. She loves feeling Orson’s cock between her lips and the addition of Wilhuff’s fingers in her hair steering her. Together, they have the poor director pleading for mercy within a couple of minutes.

Smiling, she watches as Orson lays back and passes out. This is not the time to feel unfulfilled even if she is still hungry for more. Then Wilhuff’s hand cups her cheek. On a whim, she licks it and lets his thumb glide into her mouth. Her own hand goes between her legs and she touches herself as she hungrily sucks his thumb. Their gazes meet and so little is needed and when Wilhuff tells her to come, she does. He just says it, not as a command, but mildly, and in that moment she can finally let go of everything. She is absolved of all her doubts and regrets, all her feelings of betrayal and guilt.

She crawls onto the bed and edges in between them. Orson is already asleep. She lies with her head against Orson’s shoulder and Wilhuff’s arm comes around her. This is the safest she’s felt since she was a little girl. She sighs contentedly.

In the morning, she will speak with them about Yavin IV.


End file.
